


Loss and Silence

by spiritsl



Category: Transformers Cyberverse
Genre: Blood and Torture, Energon, Medical Procedures, Near Death, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2019-10-06 10:07:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17343353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiritsl/pseuds/spiritsl
Summary: Bee laughed off the memory of losing his voice, but the reality of what he suffered will never be forgotten. The whole, brutal ordeal was now clear as day...





	1. Torn

**Author's Note:**

> Collaboration with my little sister. She draws, I write.
> 
> http://fandomgamegirl.tumblr.com

 

Bumblebee felt his spark casing ice over in cold terror as the former Champion of Kaon forced him to his knees, his strong and clawed hands digging in to the tender mesh near his helm to hold him still. Memories of matches in the past flashed before his optics, and he saw the same claws holding him now tear through armor and mesh like foil in the long gone arena matches. With the memories came the spark pounding excitement he'd once felt watching them. What a curious clash of emotions, terror and jubilation, all from the same mech.

He coughed as Megatron grabbed him around the throat and forced his helm back, putting enough pressure on his intake for him to feel pain. This was it then. He'd slit his throat. Or crush his spinal strut. Or maybe he'd just tear his head off and use it as a trophy. Closing his optics so he didn't have to see, he tried to picture all the friends he'd lost. They'd be there to greet him. No more war, no more dying...

No more Windblade. Not for a long time, at least. What he wouldn't have given to say goodbye, and he was sorry, and how she was the best friend he'd ever had-

A sharp, cold pain in the tender mesh of his neck made him lose all comfort he'd gained from thoughts of his friends. Choking, he went limp as he felt the serrated claws slice right into the tender wires and veins in his throat, hot energon dribbling down his chest as he began to bleed. Despite his best efforts, he started to cry out at the pain, his frame trembling in agony as his programming realized death was closing in.

He began to scream as Megatron started to _dig_. There was no maintaining a brave face as he was torn into, energon flowing forth and severed wires sparking painfully inside of him. All he could do was keep his optics shut so he didn't have to see. What would the Autobots do without him? How would Windblade cope? Why hadn't he done a million things differently? Was death nothing but every regret you'd ever had? Because if so, this was going to take a while.

There was a snapping sensation inside of him that came in time to a horrible crackling in his screams. Snapping his optics open at the terrifying wrongness of the sound, he saw Megatron grinning as only the tyrant could, his face spattered with a few spare droplets of energon that shimmered in the flickering light of sparking wires. He tried on instinct to scream again, only to make a horrible, distorted cacophony of static. The sound revolted him, but he couldn't stop making it. Megatron began to _pull_ on something deep within his throat, and the agony forced him to cry out.

With one last, rough yank and a final snap, Megatron pulled his dripping claws free and held his prize up to the glow of distant fire. Bee gagged in horror, soundless for so many reasons. His earliest education gave him just enough reference to recognize the bit of Cybertronian matter being dangled before him. His voicebox, still pulsing feebly and sparking from countless severed connections. Dropping him to the ground, Megatron turned the organ over in his hand, watching the scout as he crumpled and held desperate hands to his bleeding wounds. Bumblebee found himself coughing, hot energon rising into his mouth, but not a sound came forth. All there was in the world was pain, terrible and burning and inescapable.

"Funny, for such a talkative mech, I thought it'd be more impressive. No matter." Megatron said, hooking a claw beneath Bees chin and dragging him up. The motion tore already damaged mesh, making him cry out with nothing but a surge of more bleeding. Tears flowed freely as he looked up to the tyrant dangling him from an energon slick hand. All he got to see was his dying voicebox give one last, feeble throb before Megatron curled his claws around it.

There was only a tiny crunch of resistance before it crumpled in the warlords grasp.

Bumblebee gagged, but was too much in shock to be ill. His voice was gone. What little life he had left was doomed to silence. It should have been small, in the scheme of things, but the loss shook him to his core. A part of him he'd taken so much pride in wouldn't even get to die with him. How like Megatron to take that away from him too.

He was pulled up again, less aggressively this time, to look Megatron in the optic once more. Trembling from fear and agony, he struggled to hold the gaze. Megatron, amused by the reaction, shook a few spare energon droplets from his fingers.

"You know what the worst part is? The Autobots don't even know you're here." He taunted, grinning from audial to audial. Bumblebee closed his optics and tried to pull away, refusing to listen. It was bad enough he had to die, why did Megatron have to torment him too? All he could do was tremble in his hands, too weak to even hope for escape. "That means you'll die here, alone, unable to call for help, and they'll never know."

With that, he was dropped like a hunk of scrap metal, the jolt sending a new wave of agony through his injury. Coughing out a fresh mouthful of energon, he tried to ventilate smoothly. There was a maelstrom of activity within him as his self repair protocols struggled to stabilize and undo the damage, but the injury was proving too severe. Nanobots buzzed along broken and severed components, desperately cauterizing and spraying clotting agents to stop critical energon loss. At best, the efforts would buy him time for rescue. Rescue that couldn't come...

No! He wouldn't let it end like this! He couldn't just lie down and die! He had to see the others again. Had to live. He and Windblade were going to have a toast at Maccadams once this was all over. Lifting the front of his body, he palmed his comm patch with hands he didn't realize were sticky with his own energon. Undeterred, he clicked the connection on, continuing even when all he got was static. If he could just get _something_  out there, a tiny, miniscule noise of pain to let others know where he was... Desperately, he attempted a scream into his comm, jaw open wide and wound tearing from the strain as it was pushed beyond its limits. Tears poured down to mix with his ever growing puddle of energon. Nothing was happening save for him bleeding out faster. Megatron really had taken it all.

His body spasmed and rolled onto his back, the energon loss taking its toll. On the edge of his awareness he heard Megatron address an underling, saying something about a transport cell and a mind patch for interrogation. But it was far away and nonsensical. Everything went back to the world shattering silence that was now his reality. Base programs were taking over, urging him to flee and seek help, but he was helpless. He was bleeding on everything now, creating a sticky and glowing mess that was running in slow rivulets down his chest. What energon that didn't make it out was pooling inwards, filling his vents and vital systems to clog and disrupt the delicate processes keeping him alive. But he didn't notice. All that mattered was what he'd lost. Some part of him was desperate to scream and cry for help, but all his shattered throat produced was a gurgle.

A careless hand grabbed him by the wrist and started to pull, yanking him across the gritty terrain and leaving a smeared trail of energon in his wake. Gone, gone forever... And no way to get it back. As the darkness of the Decepticon base closed around him, he last thoughts were of his friends. They'd never know...


	2. Bleed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my sister, you're welcome. :3

Bumblebee was tossed into the open door none too gently by the decepticon underling, his armor clanging against the hard metal floor as his limp body rolled into a corner and settled there. The entrance was slammed shut with a reverberating clang, leaving him alone with nothing but the soft gurgling of his own haggard ventilations. Now in a kind of dazed shock from the pain and energon loss, he rolled his optics around the room, trying to get a look about while being almost incapable of movement.

The cell walls were dilapidated but far enough apart that there was more than enough space to walk about, suggesting it had once been a standard office building or storage facility bastardized by the Decepticon forces to hold prisoners before they were interrogated. A total lack of furnishings also made it very clear bots didn't stay long. Not that he expected to. The internal systems in control of repairing damage were already starting to give out inside of him, their small patchwork woefully inadequate to address the gaping hole in his neck. Though the bleeding had slowed thanks to clotting, it was also losing speed because of his depleting reserves, with a good deal of his energon now glowing on his chest and in a trail behind him.

A strange kind of contraction in his throat made him cough, and the pain was sharp and all encompassing enough to make him spasm before curling into himself. The loss of his voicebox was starting to register as a hollow emptiness inside of him. His systems were going frantic at the nothingness were a working organ should have been, and the total silence that marked every attempt at a sound made him even sicker. How could something as simple as sound suddenly be so precious? In these final hours he'd be alone, with no one to talk to, not even himself...

There was a realization in his fogging mind that talking didn't have to be out loud. It was quite likely that the only comfort he'd feel would be in his own thoughts, where a small retreat from the pain might even be possible. Closing his optics, he tried to distance himself from his broken and weakening body, going instead to happier memories and the faces of friends living and gone.

"It's okay, Bee..." Windblade soothed, taking him away from the cold Decepticon cell. She pulled him into the familiar kind of hug that always cheered him up when down, her hands stroking the spot between his doorwings that made him feel relaxed. He melted into the touch, fake or not. It was like he knew just what she would say. "You did everything you could. We'll win this for you."

A hard spasm of coughs sent a mouthful of energon spattering onto the floor. The white hot agony of the torn mesh being stretched burned away the friendly face of his friend, leaving him back on the cold, energon soaked floor. Shaking in rage at the loss, he curled up like a frightened sparkling, overwhelmed by grief. This war really was going to take everything, wasn't it? His friends, his home, his spark... What hope was there? What had he or any bot done to deserve this?

Without the energy to keep his fire going, he soon went limp once more, too far gone to truly grasp his own feelings. As before, his mind left the suffering of his body to visit happier things, wanting nothing more than a respite.

This time he saw Optimus, Grimlock, Ratchet... So much work was ahead of them, hard struggles he'd never get to help with... Optimus, his leader, mentor and friend, towered over him before Bee closed their distance with a hug. The ordinarily reserved mech held him close, silent only because he couldn't even imagine what he'd say. Something profound, no doubt. Something comforting and inspiring that would make his fear vanish and let him know his friends would all be okay. But he couldn't even guess what that would be.

A flash of blue in his imagination turned his thoughts to Blurr, one of the first friends that had been taken from him. Looking far less like a daydream than a living bot, Blurr stood amongst a sea of other supposedly dead autobots. All were whole, and smiling, and it felt like just being in their presence made his own injuries vanish.

"It's not so bad here, Bee. There's no bots or cons in the Well, just friends who have been waiting forever to see you again." Blurr said, giving him a familiar pat on the shoulder. Bee felt his fear dissipate at the touch, along with the cold and pain. There was in immediate sense of belonging, like coming home after a long journey, only better.

"Am I... already there?" He asked in a voice it already felt like he'd gone too long without hearing. Something like sadness tinged Blurrs optics, but it was home before he could think to ask about it.

"Not yet. That's kind of up to you, at this point. But I'll be here, whatever you choose."

The words seemed to snap him back into the cold, shivering shell that was his agonized body. Optics wild with a rush, he took hard, ragged ventilations that gurgled with every exhale. All around him, the dark cell seemed unchanged, but there was a frantic feeling that he suddenly had no idea how much time had passed. Much of his energon had grown cold and sticky underneath him, suggesting he'd been lying there for some time. Had he retreated so deeply into his thoughts that time had become a senseless rush? And had what he'd seen even been just another fantasy? So little felt real anymore. What if _that_ had been real? If his spark had hovered so close over the edge of the Well, that he'd met the inhabitants? As comforting as it had been, the thought terrified him. He wasn't truly ready to die, he realized. Not when life was still an option.

But was it? The Con would come back, eventually, likely when he was at his weakest, and hook him up to some terrible mind patch that would drain his processor and fry his neural net. And that would be it. You didn't survive Decepticon interrogations, especially when they just needed your brain map, and didn't care about losing the host... What would they do with him after? He probably wouldn't even have the peace of joining the Well to leave his body to meld back into Cybetrons ore. They'd do something sick with it, maybe reanimate it to fight his friends... Or worse that he couldn't even imagine.

There was a kind of clanging noise at the very edge of his audial perception, so unimaginably vague he felt the vibration more than he heard it. It made him wonder if time was already up. A few more loud noises were just barely picked up, followed by a faint rumbling in the ground that reminded him of the hard patter of acid rain. Perhaps it wasn't his turn, but some fellow unlucky autobot in another cell who was putting up a fight. How he wished he could have helped... But he couldn't even stand. Some kind of internal alarm was warning him that he'd bled far too much to be safe, and that bad things would happen soon if be didn't refuel. Not that he could have heeded it, even if he'd been clear headed enough to understand it. A much easier to follow directive was guiding him into unconsciousness. Even as the banging down the hall seemed to grow louder and more noises were added to the cacophony, he couldn't help but comply. He was just so very tired all of a sudden.

Closing his optics, he was heedless to the now very audible turmoil engulfing the hallway outside of his cell. Half awake and half powered down, it felt more like noise from a dream. There was even now the familiar shriek of laser fire, and the rumbling and shouting of some very big bots fighting in close quarters. Sounds he knew very well, and heard in his dreams often enough that it didn't arouse suspicion. He did wish they'd quiet down though, he was so tired...

Merciful sleep was almost taking him when something banged directly against his cell door. Shaking in delirious confusion, he looked around with optics that could no longer see clearly. The metal in the frame twisted and bulged before something very angry tore it open entirely. He was oddly unafraid as a shape with striking red and blue colors entered the cell, it's far greater mass encompassing him in a protective shield as a muffled voice boomed something he couldn't decipher. The world spun as he was lifted clear off the ground, his wound tearing further at the sharp jostling. Momentarily cleared by the pain, he coughed up a few more drops of what little energon he had left before recognizing himself being carried by familiar arms, with a familiar face.

Optimus? That couldn't be right, he'd never see Optimus again. Was he daydreaming again, albeit more intensely this time? But he looked so real, if quite out of place, with optics so incredibly sad as they looked into his. The turmoil around him seemed to dissapear as he watched the expression on his leaders face shift from sadness to fury, his mouth opening to scream an order he couldn't hear. Some part of him wanted to say something, even as his body began to shiver and drift off once more. But there was too much he needed to share. And, he remembered, no way to say it, or anything else, ever again. His throat was an empty cavern of pain and loss.

But, he reasoned with himself before the blissful unconsciousness took him, his friends would know what became of him. They wouldn't have to agonize as his name joined an unending list of MIAs. He'd die in the arms of his mentor, loved and protected, even if silent.


	3. Fix

Ratchet had seen countless bodies, broken and bleeding, barge through the doors to his medical bay. Some were on a stretcher while others were cradled in the arms of friends, and a rare few managed to enter on their own two legs. The biggest difference between most was how aware they were of the situation. They varied from awake, flailing and screaming to limp and deathly quiet, and the friends who often carried them in could be described the same way. Despite the chaos of these countless memories, he'd sorted them into a kind of system, and had even managed to get some use out of it all.

Through a careful coding of symptoms and signs, he'd actually found a way to guess whether a patient was more or less likely to survive with reasonable accuracy within moments of seeing them. It wasn't perfect, of course, but it helped him in those moments of crisis.

He'd never tell anyone, but when Optimus had burst into his medical bay long after comming ahead for him to be prepared, he'd been certain the broken scout in his arms would be among the latter of his patients. The normally bright and joyous mech was limp as a corpse, with so much energon he couldn't even tell where the original wound was. Most critically, his bleeding had slowed to an impossible trickle, marking energon levels so low he no longer had enough to lose. Ratchet had immediately cursed his odds, but begun to work regardless.

"On the table. Go take a decontamination wash." He ordered, having already prepared his emergency berth for a Bee sized bot. Optimus obeyed, laying the limp body on the well lit surface before hurrying to the small connected room to wash the energon from his armor. That at least, Ratchet hoped, would minimize the possibility of disease. His emotions were far away as he set to work, nimble hands applying a wash to the layer of energon that was drying and oozing over every inch of the mechs chest and throat. It didn't seem incorrect to say that more energon was now out than in. Primus, what had the Cons done to him?

An answer came as the hot, basic solution cleared away the bright blue to reveal a rough gash on Bees exposed throat, the tattered mesh still pulsing faintly as the visible insides began to falter without energy. Once more he cursed their bad fortunes. The wound was deep, deliberate and jagged, making any hope of a clean repair dissapear. This was going to be a very unpleasant surgery. Working to examine the depth of the cut, he realized with dawning horror that amongst the sliced veins and sparking neural wires, there was a gaping nothing where a very obvious organ should have been. His tanks churned as he put the pieces together. Bumblebee hadn't suffered a random blast or an impromptu slice from an enemy blade, his throat had been torn manually, and the aggressor had gone straight for the scouts most beloved tool; his voice.

Terrifying thoughts of what this would do to the scouts youthful spirit were dashed by the painful reminder; he still needed to make sure Bumblebee survived to face a life without speech. Now sufficiently certain he knew what he was working with, he began to set about stabilizing his patient, letting the energon covering his body be washed down the drains covering the table. It was a worrisome sight, the young mechs lifeblood swirling down his armor and surrounding his limp form in a halo of faded blue, but it was one he'd grown well accustomed to.

Thankful he'd already prepped his machines,  he went first for the ventilation tubes, knowing that internal leaks were probably drowning the scouts insides with coagulated energon.

He'd just managed to fit a mask over Bees mouth when thundering footsteps approached, creating a miniature earthquake that threw off his delicate work. Optimus was still dripping the sterile wash solution as he approached, having no doubt rushed out without washing. "Ratchet, is he-?"

"He won't be if I'm not able to work." Ratchet snapped, trying to insert the miniature suction tubes into the scouts chest vents. It was careful work, and the last thing he needed was a bot who wasn't able to do anything productive.

"May I assist? I need to help-"

"You can keep that door clear. I don't need his fan club crowding my operating room." Came the clipped response, his hands already grabbing the energon drip. Finding the ideal injection site was critical for bots so low on energon, and it required timing that was beyond perfect for one also bearing a gaping wound. He had to get his pump something to move, as low fuel pressure could damage the vital organ, then ensure that the wound was closed so the fresh energon wouldn't just bleed out as the old had. Needless to say, his patience wasn't suited to handling that _and_ an audience.

Marking a truly rare occasion, Optimus hesitated, his great bulk lingering before the mech he'd sworn to protect.

Ratchet ignored the pain in his leaders optics as he pulled out his surgical tray, the carefully arranged tools clean and ready to get to work. With the anaesthesia in the drip, his monitor registered the best vitals he could hope for in the situation, and he got to work.

\-----

"Please, Windblade, Ratchet will not allow-"

Optimus was barely able to keep the autobot jet from barreling past him, even with all of his considerable strength and the advantage of his size to counter her lean Seeker build.

"I need to _see_ him please! If Ratchet can't fix him, I have to see him before-"

"That will not happen." He interrupted, holding the femme back by her shoulders as she tried to push through the doors. The desperation in her voice struck the panic he was barely holding back in his own spark, but he kept it buried beneath a facade of calm.

"Hot Rod told me what he looked like, I need to-"

"Ratchet needs solitude if he is to work most efficiently." Optimus assured, speaking to himself and Windblade at once. He wanted so badly to do the same, lest he not be there if the scouts spark left them. As great as his faith was in Ratchet, Bumblebee had felt so terribly _cold_ in his arms, without even a trace of movement the entire run to their nearest base. Almost knocking him over, Windblade stopped resisting him, crumpling into his front.

"I can't lose him too. They've taken so much already, I can't lose my best friend..." She choked out between her first sobs, burying herself in the expanse of his chest as he pulled her close. It was the first time he'd seen the Cityspeaker break down, but he would never judge a bot seeking comfort in such times, especially over the potential loss of their dearest friend. The two had been inseparable even before the war...

"We will not." He promised, supporting her weight as she trembled through the tears.

A hard screech of tires on metal  made them both flinch, with Windblade pulling back and standing apart as it drew closer. Though she silenced her sobs, she let the tears remain on her face when a well known fiery paint job turned the corner. Hot Rod transformed in the middle of his skidding halt, his pedes stumbling from the momentum until he stood before them both. A single moment of silence far more heavy than awkward passed as he looked between the two of them, looking almost expectant. Once he realized no new information was coming, Hot Rod bowed his head and spoke, voice barren of his usual bluster.

"The rest of the rescue party is back. The info we got was solid, in and out with no casualties." He flinched, looking both guilty and sick as he hung his head further. "Except..."

"Thank you, Hot Rod. You may take your rest, if you'd prefer." Optimus said, gently cutting him off. The speedster looked up and cleared his vents before speaking, his gaze shifting to Windblade with the tone of a bot asking for permission in the most polite and gentle way they could.

"I'd like to stay here, if that's okay."

Windblade wiped the tears from her optics and answered with a hug, which Hot Rod returned deeply without hesitation. Bumblebee was their dearest friend, and their shared ache was almost strong enough to feel across sparks. There was a heavy, suffocating silence as the three stood in moments that dragged on like hours, which Windblade broke with a croaked question.

"Was he really bleeding as bad as you said?"

"It wasn't pretty. But Ratchet can fix it. He's pulled bots back from worse." Hot Rod said, trying to sound confident with a smile that failed to meet his optics. The image of his friend covered in enough energon to fill a tub would not soon leave him, and it certainly didn't inspire confidence. How could anyone come back from something like that? Even with all of his experience and skill, their doctor was a bot, not a miracle worker.

\-----

Pushing the precision settings of his instruments to their limits, Ratchet barely dared to ventilate as he cauterized the countless severed components in Bumblebees open throat. Wires intended to transmit neural net signals sparked hot and wild without a connection to safely send the processors commands, burning tender mesh as torn veins tried to pump their renewed energon supplies into the open. The scouts body was already missing the voice box it had lost.

Closing the last unfinished connection, he focused his attention on the gash in the mechs soft throat mesh, knowing already this would be an ugly patch. It would be a long time before he could go from damage control to actual repair, if he ever truly could. The voice box was gone entirely: how could he fix what wasn't present? And there were countless other worries to consider. The energon loss could have wreaked havoc on Bees pump system, and the resulting failures to disperse energon may have done untold damage to other organs. There was no knowing until he could run important tests, and that wouldn't be possible until Bumblebee was certain to live long enough to regain some strength.

Heavy duty sutures and gauze closed the wound to the threat of improper healing and infection, but marked the scout with a hideous glowing tangle of medical wire and broken black mesh. Thankful Bumblebee couldn't see what a sight he'd become, Ratchet began applying their bandages, sticking a great white sheet over the entirety of the infected area and then some. This at least marked the end of the initial surgery. Coming this far without dying on the operating table marked an important step, but only the first. There was still a mountain of struggle to overcome.

Before he did anything else, he looked to the monitors showing vital diagnostics, and felt the weight of his efforts press upon him. The pulse of a spark was there, but so very weak... He'd have to be on a vigil for hours, ready to deploy emergency procedures if it lost the strength to stay away from the Allspark. The night was going to be rough. The rush and stress of surgery was preferable to the agony of waiting.

"Optimus?" He spoke into his comm, hating how loud his voice sounded in the lonely medical bay.

"Yes, Ratchet?" Optimus responded without a pause, uncharacteristic surprise in his voice.

"Surgery is complete. I have him stable. You and I need to discuss the next steps. _Just_ , you and I." He said, going to wash the energon from his hands. There was silence from the comm but a muffled commotion from outside the doors, likely as the gathered bots were informed of the status update. Finally, the reply came in a tired tone.

"Understood."


	4. Prognosis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I see Cybertronians as having human comparable microscopic cells, as it helps explain CNA and I'm a Biology Minor who needs things to add up.

Optimus had prepared himself for the worst, but the sight of his dear scout on the operating table, tangled in a mess of tubes and ducts keeping him alive, was still too much. Hydraulics hissed as they kept organs working in Bumblebees weakened body, and a spark supporter beeped out a steady rhythm to keep him back from the Allspark. He looked away just as he saw the fresh, glowing sutures on his neck, inwardly reeling at the thought of a Decepticon slicing the scours small throat and leaving him for dead. For his own sake, he focused on Ratchet. The medic was busy at the monitors, reading the wave of vitals as they came to him and inputting commands to keep his patient stable. His face was empty of feeling as he spoke, optics never leaving the screens.

"It's worse than it looks. Too ragged to be a blade cut; somebot with claws got in deep." He said, voice gruffer than usual. Optimus couldn't help but look to the mask on Bumblebees face, the flow of sterile air within keeping his insides cool. He didn't even look like he was ventilating, his body lying so terribly still. Even his mesh looked pale, like a corpse whose energon had ceased its flow...

"Energon loss is my biggest concern. His pump was circling air for a few minutes. No way to know the extent of that damage until I can run some diagnostics. Worst case scenario is that some systems may have shut down without power, and the processor and T-Cog are always first to go. Infection is still a possibility as well." Ratchet announced, apparently finished with his rotation on the monitors. Grabbing a tool from a nearby tray, he flipped it on, activating a tiny scanner that he turned to the recently applied sutures on the scouts gash. Optimus allowed the information to weigh upon him, having expected it to be so. But he'd known Ratchet long enough to recognize a quirk in his behavior. "I can't even operate until he gets some strength back..."

"There's more." He said, prompting the medic to continue. Ratchet stayed still for a moment, keeping his scanner going in what Optimus realized was likely more busy work to fill the hours of waiting ahead. Then he sighed, a rare admission of exhaustion, and allowed himself to lean on the table behind him.

"This was targeted. His voicebox is gone. Not damaged; it was ripped out by a bot who knew how to get to it. And I can't fix what isn't there. He'll never talk again."

Optimus hung his head in grief. The loss would have been agony for any, but Bumblebee would be wracked by forced silence, if he ever recovered enough to feel it. His bright, cheerful demeanor was linked to his propensity for jokes and sharing his always fearless opinions. Without it, their lives would be darker indeed.

"What do you need from me, old friend?" He said, forcing the hurt down deep into his spark. An endless well of sorrow was buried within him, but for the sake of others, he didn't dare let any spill forth. Especially not for something so personal.

"We'll need to transport him further into our territory, once he's stable enough to be moved, so start clearing some routes. He'll have a lot of recovering to do and Decepticon attacks won't make it easier. But right now I need peace and quiet to do my observation, and supplies to keep it running. I'll send a list of what we need the runners to bring. Top priority is nanites; I'm pumping him full to try and offset any cell death. Can you handle that?" Ratchet sounded off, going back to the monitors and restarting his vigil. The seemingly tireless medic would do this alone, he knew, and never once would he complain through the many hours of waiting for progress. Optimus could only be humbled by the dedication.

"Of course."

Optimus paused midway to the door, turning to ask another question with a quieter tone.

"When can the others see him?"

"Once I've decided he's stable enough for more company. For now they can guard the door. If things improve, I'll let them in." Ratchet said after a pause, pinching the bridge of his noseridge before responding,

"You can tell them what I've told you, if it helps."

Optimus nodded before acknowledging the permission.

"I'm not sure it will, but thank you Ratchet."

\-----

"Can we see him?"

Windblade was waiting for him the moment he left the operating room, her optics desperate and her body coiled with worried tension. Doing his best to hide his weariness, Optimus answered carefully.

"Ratchet does not yet believe he has the strength. For now, he recommends you stand guard."

"But "yet" means he'll get better, right? So we'll see him soon?" Hot Rod interjected, looking exhausted but hopeful for even the smallest bit of news. Desperate not to crush the much needed optimism, the Prime considered his words before answering without betraying what he knew.

"You'll be allowed in when Ratchet permits it. Until then, he requested you guard the room."

Hot Rod looked disappointed but no less hopeful. Windblade, however, hadn't changed her expression the entire time. Her optics were down but her face was cold and hurt, and it barely moved when she spoke. "What happened to him?"

Optimus flinched as if he'd been struck. The image of The scout was still too fresh in his mind, and he'd have given anything to keep the burden to himself. But there was no hiding it, at least not way that would benefit them. Soon enough they would see and know for themselves, and not being blindsided would save them considerable grief. Though the words almost stuck in his throat, he managed an answer. "The injury was to his throat, and his voicebox is lost. Ratchet fears he will never speak again."

Windblade gasped, one hand covering her mouth and the other her throat. Horror and grief anew shattered her stoic calm, allowing fresh tears to dampen her cheeks. She shook her helm in disbelief.

"Those sick _fraggers_..." Hot Rod spat, looking furious and ill at the same time. Clenching and unclenching his fists, he let a few angry tears of his own slide out. Optimus turned his helm away, unable to look at either of them any further. He needed to be working. If he could make things start moving again, ensure Ratchet got the supplies he needed, and lose himself in all that needed to be done... perhaps he'd know some peace. As the two friends came together for another embrace, he took his leave, silently moving down the dark hallway and away from the medical bay.

"Primus, what will he do without his voice?" Windblade whispered, both to Hot Rod and to no one. The news had hit her like a canon blast, and her whole body seemed to ache. Grief permeated every inch of her being.

"I don't know." Hot Rod answered, equally drained. How did Decepticons always manage to find new things to take? Was there really nothing left? And all of this was assuming Bee would even get better. Could he really call it that? Getting better, just to do what? Discover how bad of shape you were really in? He didn't know.

He just didn't know...


	5. Friends

Windblade had her helm against her knees and her back to the wall as she faded in and out of a useless recharge, emerging more tired than before each time she drifted back into wakefulness. Hot Rod sat on the other side of the medical bay doors, doing much of the same thing. Many years of fighting had taught them to establish a system of shifts without words. As one went under, the other kept guard, waiting for any sign of news or change and then taking their own turn to rest.

She let herself stew in her thoughts while she was awake enough to have them. Bumblebee had been hurt before, and so had she, they all had. But this was another level. There was no back to normal this time, no return to the comfort of at least having each other like they'd always had. Bee would be silent from now on, his voice literally ripped away from him by cruel, unfeeling monsters. She'd never hear it again, save for her memories. How would he handle it? Talking was his pride and his best defense, his way of escaping rough spots and bringing light to the many dark days of their lives. Now it was just gone, and his body was broken to mark the loss. It was almost too much...

Hot Rod was the one on guard when Ratchet finally opened the door, but the simple whirr of the metal sliding open made her jolt awake with a literal jump to her feet. Her spark went from resting to flaring in moments, her optics struggling to read anything off the medics stone cold expression. Hot Rod was the first to break the silence.

"Is he-"

"He's stable. You can come in." Ratchet interrupted with a sigh, his usually unbroken mask failing to hide the exhausted sag to his limbs. Before either could so much as process the news or feel the tiniest bit of relief, the medic snapped out some ground rules with his much more customary no nonsense voice.

"No touching any of the equipment. Keep your voice low and the chit chat to a minimum. If I tell you at any point you need to leave, I mean it, no arguing."

Windblade couldn't hold back a small sound of worry at the severity of the medics tone. The rules were all reasonable, and she'd known him to establish similiar expectations in the past, but this was... different. Bumblebee was on the other end of those rules, so frail and broken they had to watch themselves just to avoid making things worse. But she could ignore that for now. He was stable, and that was an improvement from where he'd been.

Ratchet held the door wide enough for them to enter. For a brief moment, she was torn between desperation and apprehension. She wanted so badly to see him, but was also terrified. The very thought of seeing her friend so broken and weak threatened to break her spark. A hand on her shoulder steeled her nerves, and she looked over to see Hot Rod giving her the most encouraging look he could probably muster. Having the support was all she needed, and she stepped inside, letting the door closed behind them.

Bumblebee was front and center in the small medical bay, his body laying motionless in the operating table with a swarm of machinery flanking his every side. A spiders web of tubes and wires dissapeared into the creases of his armor on almost every part of his body, with the biggest apex being at his heavily bandaged throat. He barely resembled the Bee she knew. So lifeless, so broken... Her hand covered her mouth to stifle a sound of pain. Just looking at him tore her spark, her optics dampening with tears that she held back for his sake.

"Oh, Bee..." She sighed, approaching and taking a spot at his side. For a moment she stopped in her tracks, wanting to comfort her friend even if he couldn't hear, but not daring to make a move lest it worsen his condition. Accustomed to such reactions, Ratchet stepped in helpfully.

"You can touch him. Just stay clear of the wires."

Windblade nodded in thankful acknowledgement. Finding a clear spot by his upper body, she bent down and laid a gentle hand on his forehelm, biting her lip at how cold he was under her touch. Fighting the shake from her voice, she spoke softly, trying to keep her optics off the horrible sight of his throat.

"Hey Bee, it's Windblade..." She said, hoping her tone sounded at least a little upbeat for his sake. There was no reaction, though she hadn't been expecting one. Part of her just wanted to talk to him if only for a sense of normalcy. Another part of her hoped he could hear her, deep down, or at least be comforted by a familiar presence. Stroking a gentle thumb over the base of a horn, she continued, putting on a fake smile that failed to meet her optics. "I'm right here. We all are. You're safe now..."

A barely perceptible movement under her hand made her gasp, and she doubled down to hold back a break in her voice as she finished.

"I need you to wake up when you can, okay? We've got a toast at Maccadams waiting for us."

There was more movement, this time visible to any watching, as he tilted his helm a fraction to push further into her hand. The action pained her spark as much as it warmed it. Gently cupping the side of his face, she continued moving her thumb across his forehelm. She knew from experience it was his favorite spot.

"That's a good sign. He's close enough to consciousness for his processor to pick up sound." Ratchet announced, having picked up on the small movements with approval.

Windblade took the news as good and bad. Her friend being closer to waking up was a very welcome gift, but would Bumblebee feel the same when he finally came to and was told the news? Primus, she just didn't know. All she was certain of was that she would be there when it happened. Looking away from Bee for the first time, she saw Hot Rod standing at the base of the berth, his optics hollow and his shoulders sagging with grief. The brave face he'd put on for her benefit had clearly run its course. Standing from Bees side, she went over to him, taking his hand and guiding him to where she had been at Bees side. Hot Rod looked both perplexed and afraid. Keeping her hand over his and laying it on Bees shoulder, she gave him an encouraging smile, and he seemed to draw strength from the gesture.

"We're uh... Hot Rod here, Bee. Don't forget you still owe me some lava surfing. I need you awake for that." He said, voice faltering the entire time. There was another tiny movement beneath their fingertips, and both friends felt a shared peace to experience it together. While he was far from better, their friend had the strength to overcome his injuries. And they would be there every step of the way.


	6. Awake

A painful fire seemed to burn over every inch of Bumblebees body when he woke. Hot, tingling aches were present everywhere he was capable of feeling, almost pushing him right back down into the cool abyss of unconsciousness just to escape the torture. But his mind knew well enough that he needed a grasp of what was going on, regardless of the unpleasantness, and that required waking up in full.

His optics cracked open to a bright, focused light he knew well enough. The surgical lights of a medical bay were never a fun sight, but they meant he was safe and in good hands. On cue, there was a familiar blur of red and white paint to his right, and he rolled his optics to try and get a better look.

"Don't move, don't try to talk. You're in the medical bay." Ratchet advised, scanning him as he talked. Vision still a little blurry, Bumblebee tried to make out more of his surroundings, unable to see much of himself in his prone position. Never one to heed advice to be quiet, he decided a quick question wouldn't hurt too much. He had no memory of what had landed him here, and a little bit more of an explanation would put his mind at ease. Opening his mouth, he tried to find the words that would get him the most results, noticing how slow his voice box was to prep at his command.

A searing agony shot through his throat and arced along his whole body the instant he tried to form a sound for real. Spasming at the pain, he felt a tangle of wires bounce along his body as the sense of some terrible wrongness pierced his gut. He hadn't made a single sound, not even to cry out. There wasn't even a sense of malfunction where the pain was located, just a horrible, unnatural _emptiness_ that he'd never felt before. It shook him to his core, demanding answers and spurring him to try and rise before a very firm hand pushed him back down.

"I said no talking. Your throat is is bad shape." Ratchet scolded, keeping him on the berth. Bumblebees processor was racing, a thousand questions stuck on his lips. This didn't feel like just bad shape. The neural net links in his throat were registering nothing were a voice box should have been waiting to receive commands. Once the brief effort had exhausted him and he went limp once more, Ratchet relaxed his grip, looking him in the optic with emotion he couldn't quite decipher. Sighing, the medic shook his hand, laying a hand on his shoulder and speaking as a friend.

"Your voice box is gone, Bee. You can't talk. I'm sorry."

The words triggered a flood of memories to come back online, and he was once again overcome with terror. He remembered Megatron, remembered those cold claws digging so deep and slicing right through him, and the final sight of his voice box being torn from his open throat and crushed... He would never speak again. It had been stolen from him, literally ripped away for the sake of cruelty. He'd survived, but what was the point? He'd be silent, crippled, useless to the fight...

A loud beeping on the monitor matched his skyrocketing pump rate, his body trembling as true panic started to set in. The thought of the future ahead was more terrifying than anything he'd ever known. He barely noticed Ratchet dissapear from his vision before a surge of exhaustion suddenly flooded his veins, a sedative flowing through the IV and suppressing him before he could hurt himself. Floating for a moment, he settled back to the berth as Ratchet reappeared in his vision, the medic letting out a sigh of relief before he spoke again.

"Windblade has been waiting for you, alright? You want me to get her? Nod for me."

The thought of his friend made the reaction and easy one. He wanted another familiar face, even if he was on the border of unconsciousness and had never felt so weak in all his life. Head moving in what could barely be called a nod, he nevertheless got confirmation that the medic understood when he dissapeared from sight again, and he heard a door open and close in the distance. For a moment, he lay alone in the sedative induced fog, still aware but far more calm than before. Instead of panic, he only felt grief for his condition.

The door flew open at the same time he heard rapid, familiar footsteps. Not even having time to blink, he was immediately in the shadow of a very familiar face as it blocked out the medical light. Windblade looked torn between tears and a smile as she got him in the best embrace she could at their angle, face dissapearing as she pressed it against the side of his helm for a hug. Unable to lean in, he cherished the touch regardless, finding his first feeling of hope in her arms.

"Bee!" She said breathlessly as she pulled back, keeping her hands on his chest and free of any wires. "You're okay! Hot Rod was with me but he had to go out for field duty. We've been waiting for you. I knew you'd pull through."

The well intentioned words cut deep. He had no power to respond to her, and it truly hit him at that moment. They would never talk again. For the rest of his life he'd be silent, desperately struggling for even a taste of the ease of communication he'd known before. _I'm not okay..._ He wanted so desperately to say. _I can't tell you anything. They took that from me. I'm broken, and I'll never be whole again..._ Tears of wordless grief dotted his optics, and her face immediately dropped in shared anguish.

"Oh, Bee..." She soothed, cupping the side of his helm with gentle hands. Despite the touch, his tears started to fall, sliding down his helm and dripping onto the berth below. He felt useless. How could a bot with no ability to communicate help in a war? How could he ever help anybot again?

"Shhh..." Windblade whispered, holding him as she had when the nightmares had begun. He let himself cry in her arms, utterly lost in his grief. The comfort of her touch kept him grounded as he let the tears fall, the fear and pain of the whole experience finally having a safe outlet. Without a word, she held him the entire time, gently stroking her hand beside his horns until the shaking sobs subsided and he settled into shakes. Pulling back, she allowed their optics to meet. A gentle smile on her face, she spoke softly, cupping the side of his face to wipe away a few tears with her thumb. "We're getting through this, okay? I'm not abandoning my best friend."

The words brought out a gentle, shaking sigh, his helm leaning into her touch. No amount of hardship could tear them apart, and no matter how broken he was, she was still his friend. Opening his optics, he managed a weak smile in reply, wanting to let her know however he could what she meant to him.

"We'll figure it out." She assured, laying a tender kiss on his crest. In the old days she'd done that whenever she wanted to tease him, and he'd always react by playing up a blush and pretending to be painfully embarrassed by the affection. It had never failed to get a laugh. A cough from Ratchet interrupted the nostalgia, and they both turned to look at the interrupting medic.

"I've got Hot Rod on the line. Do you want to see him?" He asked, and Windblade looked to Bee for an answer. More than willing to see another of his friends, Bee managed the most enthusiastic nod he could. Ratchet acquiesced and brought up the screen on his arm at an angle.

"Hey Bee, you're awake!" Hot Rod belted out the moment his face appeared on the video, grinning audial to audial. Windblade kept herself to the side so Bumblebee could offer his own weak smile in return. "I'm sorry I couldn't be there. Had to wrap up some important business out here but we're good now. I'll be in to see you soon, okay?"

"We'll all be here. We can all play some cube together once you're ready." Windblade offered, putting a friendly hand on Bees shoulder. The support made him marvel at his friends. Ever his allies, even in the face of his greatest tragedy.

"No sports in my medical bay." Ratchet scolded, bringing out a laugh from everyone present. Everyone but Bee, that is. His silence and the drop of his smile sent the mood spiraling, and it was only Ratchet stepping in that kept it from dropping any further. "Regardless, I believe this has been more than enough stimulation for Bumblebee. He needs his rest."

"Of course. We'll try and be ready if you need us, okay Bee?"

"Ditto that. I'll be back in the base in just a klik!" Hot Rod said before his video was cut off, leaving Windblade to give him a final hug before Ratchet guided her out of the door. Bumblebee only let his smile fall when they were gone. For all the love his friends could give him, he hadn't even been able to share in their laughter, and that ached more than having his voice box torn out all over again. Ratchet stood over him, a rare softness in his optics as he placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"I'll give you a light sedative to help with the pain. Once you're a little stronger, we can start working on getting you back into shape."

Bumblebee nodded, but his optics were dim with hopelessness. Even with the best medical officer in the galaxy, back into shape for him would forever be broken.


End file.
